


Spilled Salt

by Black_Banshee



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ichabbie Holloween, Prompt Fic, Superstition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:49:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8414320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Banshee/pseuds/Black_Banshee
Summary: Abbie discovers a new means of confusing already baffled Ichabod.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Ichabbie Holloween Day 1: Very Superstitious.

> But, if the Salt, by chance she spills,  
>  She then foresees a thousand ills:  
>  Though, for her comfort, she grows bolder,  
>  When she has thrown it o’er her shoulder.
> 
> — The English Dance of Death, from the Designs of Thomas Rowlandson, with Metrical Illustrations, by the Author of “Doctor Syntax.” Vol. II.  
>  William Combe (1742-1823)

The first time it happened, Ichabod paid it no attention. Instead, he filed Abbie’s overly curious behaviour away to ask later.

He and Abbie were having supper and, quite by accident, she’d knocked over the salt-box, spilling salt across the dining table.

Rather than rising at once to her feet and fetching a paper towel to scoop up the spilled salt as he’d expected her to do, she took a pinch of the salt, then threw it over her left shoulder, much to his bemusement.

Only then did she turned again to her plate.

***

The second time, however, Ichabod’s naturally curious mind and innate passion for learning could not allow the moment pass without explanation.

They were in the kitchen, this time, during which he prepared luncheon for the two of them. He asked Abbie hand him salt to add to the Spanish omelet he was making.

She stood on tiptoe to reach the salt that was on a higher cabinet. When her feet finally reached the floor, she lost her footing and the bag fell, spilling out its contents.

Stifling a curse, she swooped to clean the mess, and again cast a measure over her left shoulder.

He cast her a fleeting, sideways glance, torn between amusement and confusion.

“Lieutenant…?” he began, arching an eyebrow in inquiry. “Twice now I have witnessed your peculiar practice of throwing salt over your shoulder. It is most odd.”

She tilted her head to the side. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He held up his finger. “I mean no disrespect. I am merely curious to know the source of your actions just moments earlier.”

She softened her tone just a bit. “It’s just something people do to prevent bad luck. And in our line of work we need all the luck we can get.”

Abbie sighed. “Look, don’t sweat it, Crane.” Ichabod rolled his eyes. “It’s just one of those things that no one’s ever given much thought.” She paused, then added, “besides, you guys didn’t believe that alcohol was a disinfectant that could be used to treat wounds, and thought it’d do a lot more good on the inside than out.”

“Touché. But, as you well know, scientists of my era were yet to make prodigious strides in germ theory.” He pointed out.

“Because,” she continued, “I recall Captain Crane admonishing me for drinking on the job, when in fact, I was _actually_ trying to make sure it was safe to use over a wound.”

Ichabod coloured furiously.

“Point taken. I bow to your expertise in the matter.”

Abbie smirked.

Task complete, he switched off the stove, serving them the omelet, and adding the green salad Abbie had prepared earlier.

Moving away to the _breakfast bar_ , they sat across from each other, and took a bite of the omelet he had put on their plates. Heads bowed, they applied themselves to their food.

After a few moments, Abbie broke the silence. “The superstition goes back to Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper. The painting depicts, among other things, Judas Iscariot spilling salt before he betrays Jesus. Ever since, spilling salt has been associated with treachery and lies,” she explained.

Ichabod set down his knife and fork. “Yes, I am well aware that salt was long thought to have protective wards against spiritual and magical evil, thank you very much. Not to mention salt was a luxury, in my lifetime, that only the well-to-do could afford.”

Abbie merely blinked at him.

She swallowed a piece of omelet. “In several cultures and religions, spilled salt is seen as an evil omen, brings misfortune, and a curse on the land. So, throwing a pinch over your shoulder is supposed to bind the devil waiting there.”

“Ah, yes. Now that you put it that way… it makes perfect sense.”

Abbie smiled, her lovely brown eyes sparkling with that teasing gleam he so cherished.

“Would you like some more omelet, Lieutenant?” Ichabod asked, reaching across the counter for her empty plate.

Mesmerised, he knocked over the salt-cellar and some of the salt spilled onto the countertop.

Ichabod’s mouth fell open.

At that, Abbie exploded into giggles, covering her mouth with her hand as she tried to contain her laughter.

He glowered at her.

But Ichabod soon found that her mirth was infectious and couldn’t help but laugh right along with her.

He righted the salt-cellar, pinched the loose salt, and threw it over his shoulder.


End file.
